


Cold morning shadow

by xagentofchaos



Series: Fireflies [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Panic Attack, dark!stiles, void!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3789745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xagentofchaos/pseuds/xagentofchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is getting worse and thinks he's hallucinating.</p><p>THIS FIC IS PAUSED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold morning shadow

With fingers tracing further down the back, mapping every mole and freckle; giving into the soft sound of pleasure. Feathery kisses between still shoulder blades and a small taste from the tip of a tongue. The air smells like a damp forest in the morning with wet moss and lady’s mantle, with the drop of water still shining. The strongest smell in the room is safety, the feeling of protection and warmth. Lustful sounds from puckered lips, a wet trail of love further down. But there’s also a smell of darkness that’s seeping through the cracks in the walls, inflating the light. Enough to leave a sense but not enough to interrupt. 

Peter is worshipping the boy underneath him, adjusting to the squirms of his body and breaths in his delicate moans. Wanting to bury Stiles inside of him, open up his stomach and let him hide, he deepens the kiss into his mouth and skin, to taste it all. Stiles is giving into the soft of their relationship, hesitant at first due to inexperience, but melts by Peter’s hands. 

But he feels defiant beneath Peter, a bit turned away in his mind. As if something is distracting him; squinting and twitching while something’s hitting the loud bell in his head. Pretty much everything about the young man have changed; his body language is not as spontaneous and moving, his eyes doesn’t hold as much sparks; there’s a deepness beneath them, a hollow pit. Peter doesn’t question it, he lets Stiles get used to him being there instead, understanding that the boy is just going through an afterglow of suffering. Trauma changes people, he knows everything about that. 

Although, it’s when Stiles pulls away from the warmth and safety, without meeting Peter’s questioning gaze, that the older man realizes that something is deeply wrong. Stiles looks like a transparent ghost in front of the wolf; pale and see-through to his veins. He’s not smiling, barely making any emotions visible to his surroundings. Barely even seeing with his before dravite colored eyes, which have turned into ashy brown. Almost a greyish black color, melting together with the dark bags underneath them. He gets out of bed and disappears into the living room. Peter can hear him rummaging through the cupboards, searching for something. 

When he gets back in, he’s holding something flat and black in his hand. An object Peter put away some years ago because Stiles was absolutely terrified of it. He hadn’t been thinking about the spanking board ever since. 

Stiles crawls into bed again, now watching Peter directly in his eyes. 

“I want you to spank me so hard I’ll get bruises so dark they’ll last for weeks,” Stiles whispers in Peter’s ear, nibbling on his earlobe seductively. A shiver goes through Peter’s spine but if it’s with arousal or fear, he can’t tell. Perhaps a bit of both. 

 

~

 

It wasn’t just Stiles’ eyes and facial expressions that had changed, also his body movements. Before everything that happened, Stiles wobbly legs were everywhere; crashing into things like a burst elastic band and dramatic gestures with his arms. Stiles was a free bird in his body, young and free and ready to take over the world. 

But now, he’s still and careful. Moving around like he’s walking on glass, conscious steps as if he’s afraid to break something. There’s a void sensation over the boy nowadays, a feeling of dark cold when you touch his skin and he’s giving you a mean grin in return; eyes empty and vitreous. It’s like the life seeped out of him during that year, like his soul is trapped in hell and only an empty shell is left. 

Peter is not the only one spotting the differences, his friends are also watching him carefully with intense looks; digging every changed fiber out of him, inspecting them. Scott started using his whispering voice while talking to his best friend, as if he’s scared Stiles’ going to burst at him in anger or distress if louder words are being used. They’re trying to comfort him, to be there for him when needed, but it’s getting harder and harder to know exactly when Stiles needs them or not. He’s hiding in the shadows to not be visible, turning away to not be seen. 

 

~ 

 

A strong scent of blood is bouncing between the walls one morning, adheres on the wallpaper. Seeping through his nostrils and get stuck in his throat. Peter separates his eyelids and meets Stiles’ gaze from the other side of the lit up room. Burning sunlight puts color on dead objects; plays with glittery dust; hits Stiles’ blood-soaked body. The younger boy is smiling brightly at Peter, blood smeared around his mouth, but his eyes are still dead and dark. With his werewolf eyes, Peter sees an excited tremble on the boy’s body; the arousal reeking in the air. 

Stiles crawls into bed, stains the sheet dark red. He rips off his clothes to press his hardness on Peter’s thigh, moaning softly into his neck. He grabs the boy in his hair, forcing his head back to look at his face. A smirk lands on Stiles’ lips, pale skin covered in cold sweat. 

“Fuck me, Peter,” he groans, humping Peter’s leg; his cock already wet with pre cum. “I want you to rip me apart.” Peter whimpers in protest; being so close to both blood and salty pre cum is making his mind go dizzy and out of control. “I _need_ you to do it.” 

He spun the boy around, hovers him dominantly, growling into his neck. Licking his way up from the bobbing Adams apple to his chin, tasting the fresh blood on his tongue. Shaking violently above the boy, skin open for saliva and bite marks. Hungry for the moans from Stiles’ mouth, he’s crashing his lips onto his, lapping the taste of pleased sounds. Stiles grinds upwards, desperate for contact and rough play. Peter is ready to give it to him, ready to tear his body apart.

But it’s when he can see his own blue, shining eyes in Stiles’ completely black ones that he hesitates. Staring at himself in the bottomless ocean, he shakes his head and backs away from the boy. 

“No,” he murmurs and gets out of bed. 

“Don’t leave!” Stiles screams after him, suddenly crying violently. Looking like a terrified pup, he curls into himself; cries out loud at Peter. “Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave!” 

“Don’t do this to yourself,” Peter whispers from the corner of the bed, not trusting himself to get close to the younger boy yet; afraid that he’ll lose all his control immediately. 

“I’m sorry!” Stiles says, clutching onto the pillow with white knuckles, tears streaming down his cheeks and mix itself with the dried blood. His heart beats dangerously fast in his chest, almost jumping out of the ribcage. “I don’t know how to still the pain. It hurts so much.” He tries to breathe but it comes out shakily. “I can’t lose you again. You were gone for so long. I can’t do it anymore.” 

“I won’t leave, I promise.” 

Stiles crawls towards Peter and clings himself around Peter’s middle. “You don’t know that.” 

“Stop killing people, Stiles. You might be put away someday. And then we’ll be away from each other.” 

“How am I supposed to know if I’m alive or not, then?” 

“I can remind you every day.” 

Stiles hums, sniffing sharply. “It’s okay. I already know that this is an illusion. When I’m sane again, you’ll be gone.” He looks up. Peter shivers from the look on the boy’s face. “I don’t want to be sane. I can’t handle you being gone.” 

“I’m here, Stiles,” Peter whispers. 

“No you’re not.” He smiles weakly now. “You’re dead.” 

Peter hugs the boy back, nails digging into Stiles’ back. Tears being dangerously close to the edge, he forces himself not to cry.


End file.
